Leighton: Look at it again. Pretend it isn't you.
Fuck that. There's no way I belong on a book cover. Even if it's a pointless mock-up. I have nine years of Penny complaining about our pics to prove that.
But when I blink, I see it. Not in some damn, look at my hot bod kind of way.
There's an ache there. Not just exhaustion and sweat, but something else.
It's like I'm screaming I'm never gonna be okay.
Ryan: Am I really this hopeless?
Leighton: Isn't that what you're going for?
No. I just don't know how to be anything else.
Chapter Five
Leighton
My cell is flush with texts from Dean.
Dean: You're not doing this.
Dean: It's too stupid. Even for me.
Dean: He's still in love with her.
Dean: He's gonna break your heart without even realizing it.
Leighton: I want to help him.
Dean: You want to kiss him.
Leighton: It can be both.
Dean: No. It can't. ‘Cause he doesn't want to kiss you.
Leighton: Ryan's your brother. You should look out for him.
Dean: I am. After he breaks your heart, you'll leave, and he won't have anyone.
Leighton: And you'll miss me?
Dean: Don't do this, Leigh.
Leighton: I'm not. He's still saying no.
Dean: But you'll convince him to say yes.
Leighton: How do you figure?
Dean: You convinced me to hire you.
Leighton: It wasn't hard.
Dean: ‘Cause I was desperate to replace Ally. He's desperate to prove this shit. Same deal.
Dean was a regular at Rock Bottom forever. We weren't friends, exactly, but we were friendly. I knew he needed help. When he found out I needed a new job, he hired me right away.
At the time, I thought it was because he wanted to get in my pants.
But now…
Well, I'm still not exactly sure of his intentions.
Leighton: You can admit you'll miss me.
Dean: Course I'll miss you. You have great tits.
Leighton: You'll miss me. Not my tits.
Dean: No, I'll definitely miss your tits. That top you were wearing yesterday was ridiculous. They were about to pop out.
Leighton: Thanks?
Dean: You looked hot as fuck.
Leighton: And?
Dean: Did Ryan say anything about how he wanted to motorboat you?
Leighton: I'm rolling my eyes now.
Dean: Trust me, Leigh. Any normal guy looks at your boobs and thinks "I need to come on those."
Leighton: You're so gross.
Dean: And if Ryan pushed you against the wall and whispered "I want to come on your tits?"
My cheeks flush. I press my knees together. I, Uh…
Leighton: Your point?
Dean: He doesn't want to fuck you.
Leighton: Okay. I'll concede that. I'm not doing this to fuck him.
Dean: You have no idea what Penny and her friends are like. You don't know what you're getting into.
Leighton: I don't care. I'm doing this.
Dean: You're smarter than this.
Leighton: I'm doing it.
Dean: Promise you won't leave if he breaks your heart.
Leighton: He won't.
Dean: He will.
Leighton: No, he won't.
Dean: Then it will be an easy promise to keep.
It's bizarre seeing Dean worried.
But sweet.
I cross my fingers.
Leighton: Okay. I promise.
Usually, I love my design class. Today, it's a slog. The lecture on typography goes in one ear and out the other. My thoughts are all tuned to Ryan.
To the possibility of kissing Ryan.
I try to pay attention by making him the centerpiece of my homework—a book cover, my favorite—but it isn't enough to keep my head in the game.
The entire drive, I think of him. As I park and walk to the shop, I think of him.
As I enter the door, I think of him.
He's thinking of me too.
Lunch is sitting on the counter. Grilled chicken and cherry tomatoes over arugula. A lemony vinaigrette on the side. Wonderful cool food for another sweltering July day.
Ryan nods hello. Motions to the salad.
"I can't take your food."
"Had my own."
"Still."
"Then don't." He disappears into his suite.
I sit at the counter and log into the shop computer. There isn't much to do today. There isn't much to do most of the time.
Technically, I work the counter. I help customers check out. I keep the shop clean, keep the schedule organized, keep the snacks stocked.
And, yes, I wear figure-flattering outfits that attract the attention and tip-money of our male clients.
The guys are plenty charming. They don't need help extracting money from women.
Even Ryan… well, he is charming in that tortured bad boy kind of way.
Not that I actually think of him as a bad boy.
More that I'm acutely aware of the stereotypes of many of our customers. The clean-cut ones who want tattoos to show off their rebellious streak.
No judgment. I only have a little ink—the cherry blossom on my forearm, the cartoon dragon on my wrist, the Latin quote on my ribs.
alis volat propriis
She flies by her own wings.
It meant something to me when I got it.
Now…
It's another ugly reminder of why I needed to ink encouragement onto my skin.
Of how impossible it is to trust anyone.
At least that convinced me to stop schilling booze. I'd never have quit bartending without extra motivation. The money was too good.
The money may be worse at Inked Hearts, but everything else is better.
I love this place. The big windows, the smell of the ocean air, the red and pink heart string lights, the friendly smiles from Walker, the paternal glances from Brendon (currently in his suite, working on some equally quiet guy's tattoo), the dumb jokes from Dean.
And Ryan.
Everything from Ryan.
I keep half my attention on him as I catch up on bookkeeping. And lunch.
It's amazing. Tender, crisp, lemony. The best lunch he's made me in a while—he always brings me his leftovers.
I nearly inhale the food. Then I get back to work. Schedules. Social media. I don't have to do much—even Ryan posts his work on Instagram regularly.
They make my job too easy.
I miss feeling needed. I'm sure it helps business, having a warm smile and a little cleavage behind the counter, but I want to be more than a prop.
I want to do work that uses my brain.
I love design, but I'm not good enough to strike out on my own. Not yet.
Maybe I'll get there one day.
Until I do, I'm staying here.
The money is good. The company is great. So what if the work itself is boring? There's more to life than creative fulfillment.
Besides, working on designs for myself is fulfilling in its own way.
After I double check everything twice, I pull up my laptop and start my homework: a flyer for a fictional concert.
There's a ton of information to convey on one sheet of paper: three headlining bands, a dozen others, two charities supporting the event.
There must be some way to streamline it.
I play around with mock-ups until Ryan walks his client to the counter.